Meet the “Straight Girl” (Halloween Pt 2)

"Lesbians Don't Know Dick"

Right?

Start the night off  with Lezplay Halloween PT 1

“I wish I could smoke!” Gina said as I rolled a joint. “But I’m planning on being an RN–and they drug test!”

“Girl,” The narrow boned woman sucked her teeth next to her. “I smoke blunts ALL. DAY. LONG. And that’s my job.”

“Well how do you do it?” I asked, twisting up a J.

“I got four kids.” Shiniqua replied. “I line them up outside the bathroom–tell them: ain’t none of y’all going to school until Mama gets some pee!  Put it in a little bottle like this.” She grabbed a shot bottle. “Then I put in the microwave for a minute. You gotta put it right up against the skin.” She lifted her skirt to reveal a sliver of dark chocolate skin above her leggings, tucking the empty bottle in.

I lit my joint and took a hit. I’m usually a decent roller, but this weed was super sticky and I could barely pull through.

I handed it off to Shiniqua with a grimaced apology at my rolling job. She took a deep drag and glared at the joint.

“So, you’re all lesbians?” She asked somewhat skeptically, and we nodded. “Like, I don’t get that. I don’t get the whole ‘lesbian thing'”

“It’s an emotional thing.” A Latina in a Harlequin costume replied. And the rest of us tried to explain too. But it’s a hard thing to explain lesbian attraction to someone who hasn’t felt it.

“I don’t know,” She raised her eyebrows sceptically. “I need the dick!” She dropped low, undulating her thick booty to simulate some dick riding. “I used to only date white men,” she said, jumping up and taking the joint back from me, lighting, sucking and glaring. “I wouldn’t give black men the time of day! But then this nigga put it on me! I was turned out!”

What followed was a very strange interlude where she and two “lesbians” talked excitedly about the first time they had black dick. Not like a conversation, but three monologues all at once–their enthusiastic descriptions overlapping as I gazed on in bemusement.

It’s not that I don’t have my own story about being turned out by black dick, it’s just that I am so past that now that I don’t even really like thinking about it.

I like pussy.

So. Much. More!

Too Many Dudes

Dude in t-shirt--says "Do Not Cock Block"

Did I feel nervous driving to the heart of the ghetto to meet a woman who I had only met online at her house?

Yes.

Did I do it anyways? Yes.

I could hear my best friend Tina’s voice in my head:

“You better be carefull.” She’d say, shaking her head, her  neatly pressed hair waving back and forth under her cap, “Go ahead, boo boo, but you never know, you could show up at her house and there could be dudes there–” Implying dire consequences.

But my gut told me it would be okay, so I drove down there. Boston is an incredibly diverse, yet still  starkly segregated city. I’m reminded most vividly of that on the snake ride from my house to Mattapan,: as complexions darken dramatically from mostly white to almost exclusively shades of brown.

The early evening streets and porches were filled as I pulled up: people barbequing, dudes on bikes. I think its safe to say I was the only white person on the block. I felt like my skin was painted with iridescent paint–my skin glowed so bright in contrast with those around me. I covered my shoulders with a hoodie, wishing I had a cap on.

“Hello” A couple nodded as they walked by, me, and I said friendly “Hi” back.

She opened the door, even more gorgeous than in her pictures: sweet brown eyes framed by sexy black-rimed glasses and a swoop of wavy dark brown hair.  A tight t-shirt and jeans with a tantalizing series of holes up the thigh clung to her curvaceous form.

“Oh, you came earlier than I thought.” She greeted me, her smile shy and inviting. “My friend’s here-he just got here, but he won’t stay long. ”

We sat on the porch drinking Pina Coladas. I was trying to assess the situation: what was he to her?

From the looks he was giving her, he was more than just a friend. Or he wanted to be. As men do, he dominated the conversation, and I learned more about him than I wanted (just go away, already!) but I managed to learn a little about her in the kitchen as she mixed up more drinks.

She was 37, three kids, one grand-kid (!) and no job, but possibly going back to school. Not looking for a relationship, just something discrete. She said she’d been with women before, but always kept it on the low. Greeat! I silently cursed my libido that was drawing me towards her even as my logical mind screamed–not the one!

She finally got Dude to leave, and agreed to come out with me. (After I offered to pay her way in.)

“So, where y’all going?” Dude asked before leaving.

“The Randolph Country Club.” I answered.

“Where’s that?”
“Randolph” We both answered in tandem.

To Be Continued…

That Kiss

CU of two women kissing--with hands

When I was in High School I was very involved with the gay community: the GSA was my social life, I was in the Governors Commission for gay & lesbian youth, etc…but over the years of living on the streets & then  raising children, I lost touch with the gay community.

At first it didn’t seem to matter much, since almost everyone on the streets seemed to be  Bi–but, I didn’t seem able to attract women, while men circled me like sharks smelling blood in the water.

For a long time it seemed like the only girls who liked me invariably had a guy with them who would fidget miserably as she publicly kissed me.

Although I never stopped being attracted to women, I became convinced that women were too scary, too unavailable, something to be “appreciated” but not pursued.

And then she kissed me.

We were talking at a party, and she smiled, leaning unexpectedly in mid conversation to connect our lips. I looked around, expecting to see a pathetically jealous man hovering nearby–but no! Only her blue eyes sparkled at me. For once, a single woman liked me!

We went on a date in Central Square on Valentines Day–holding hands on the street like it was nothing! Dinner and then back to her place…

Walking with her small but curvaceous body pressed into my side, every woman and girl that I had ever had feelings for came back to me, and my heart overflowed.

My First Time

Old School Lesbians from the 40's

See the Looks From the Two on the Right? Like That!

(At a Lesbian Bar–What did  you think I was talking about?)

I was feeling high and all kinds of  excited because I was out at a straight club and this chick was feeling me! We were dancing to this hot local band and things were going good! When the music ended, I got her number and stumbled out into the night, not ready to go home yet.

I decided that I was feeling brave, feeling bold, so I made my way over to the local lesbian bar. (Yes, the tiny town of Fort Collins CO. has a Lesbian bar, but the big city of Boston does not.)

I was greeted at the door by a big butch woman who carded me gruffly, her glare alerting me to my likely reception once inside.

I strode by her blithely, greeted by unwelcoming glances and bad karaoke inside.

I sidled up to the bar and ordered a coke. The bar tender looked at me skeptically and carded me again. I showed her my ID (I was 24) and explained that I was trying to sober up for my drive home. (Which was true.)

She served me grudgingly, and I nursed my coke while a gaggle of butch/sporty women glared at me unwelcomingly from across the room. I was probably the only one in the whole place wearing a dress. (Long, formfitting, red.) I guess they figured I was a “curious” straight girl.

I finished my drink and payed my tab sadly. Not one person had smiled at me  or seemed in the least bit friendly (or even attractive)  the whole time I had been there. Maybe I could only attract Bi girls? I wondered to myself as I wandered out into the night.

I didn’t go to another Lesbian bar for five years.

A Butch in Queer Space

Close up of White Boi w/a Tie
I looked up from fixing my laces into the wide-open smile of a tall heavyset, “sporty”  woman. Unused to such enthusiasm from total strangers, (especially butch strangers) she was gone before my returning smile reached my eyes.

Why was she smiling at me?

Because I was wearing a tie.

And suspenders. Over a wife-beater with some big black boots.

I was butch. Very butch. During the daytime. In public.

Now, I was in central square in Cambridge, where this is not all that unusual. Creative self expression is as much the rule here as the exception. For example, on my way to the club I passed a woman skimpily clad in a homemade leopard print skirt and tube top , among other characters.

Even so. I could feel people looking at me different–but I felt the same.

I was wearing butch clothing–but I felt the same.

There are times when I feel like a boi, but this wasn’t particularly one of them. To mask my insecurity, I lengthened my stride into my street strut and puffed out my shoulders, dangling my arms in studied nonchalance.
Just let one of these fools mess with me, I projected with my body language.
I felt transgressive. Transgressive in a way that I don’t usually feel on a boi day. My normal boi clothing is butch enough to register, but it doesn’t scream butch the way a tie and fitted does.

But as strange as it felt to walk down the street with my masculinity on my sleeve, it was stranger in the club. You see, while I’ve been wearing boi clothes on the weekend and even to work, I’ve been carefully policing my gender presentation in queer space to present purely as a femme.

I wasn’t the only butch in the club, but I was definitely in the minority. I was surprised that the butches there didn’t react to me with the hostility that I’m used to.  Instead their eyes slid over me as if I was of no interest. (Maybe the goofy glasses made me not non-threatening.)

Because it was a themed event, there were lots of femmes and adros  in ties and hip/hipster outfits, with a sprinkling of effeminate guys mixed in.

I walked up to a social friend of mine and said:

“Hi.”

She stared at me blankly for a long moment before erupting into a big smile.
“Oh my god I didn’t recognize you!” She smiled and laughed uncomfortably.

This same interaction was repeated two more times with two more people. I really looked that different. The third person was a really cute stud that I’ve seen around before.

We chatted flirtatiously, and throughout the night I could feel her looking at me in a way that she hadn’t before, but every time we got close enough to dance, she turned around and danced with either a femme or a gay guy.

And–I found myself doing the same.

I think that I finally “get” the thing that some butches have about gay guys. I always knew that there was an ego boost to having my masculinity “recognized” by cis males, (something I’ve gotten even dressed as a femme on occasion)  but having it acknowledged and–deferred to–by a more feminine cis male was heady stuff!

Throughout my evening,  I spent a little too much time worrying about my presentation: was I acting too femmey? Should I be leading on the dancefloor? Um, how do I lead? (Still haven’t figured that on out!)

Besides some dramatic dancing with a narrow-boned black guy, I danced with a rather boring light-skinned femme for a while, then found myself matching rhythms with a slender, long haired femme with a Spanish flair and a tomboy edge.

After a short convo that proved she had a solid head on her shoulders, all thoughts of the (closetted stud-for-) stud dissapeared as the femme and I bounced up and down on the dancefloor, her pussy pressing through the fabric of our clothes as she bounced up and down on my thigh.

My own pussy felt wet and swollen and strangely naked in the cavern of my boxer-shorts.

I gripped her slender, well-shaped ass, matching her rythm even as my knees screamed in protest.

When the lights came on we wandered out.

“Can I give you a ride?” I offered, at the turn to where my car was parked.

“I don’t now…” She looked at me, knowing that my offer held the possibility of more kinds of rides than one.

“I’ll walk you to the T-Stop then.”

We hugged for a long time, then I watched as she descended the steps to the train station. With some finesse, I probably could have turned her maybe into a yes. But if I’m with a woman, I want it to be an unconditional, unthinking, YES!

Big Dyke

Butch Barbie

Last Saturday was a busy night.

I was on the edge of the dance-floor, watching, when a man approached me. There were too many men at this club! And too many of them are straight!
I eyed him distrustfully. I’m partially faceblind, and I couldn’t be sure if he was one of “Chloe’s” “friends.”
“Hey do you want to dance?” He asked me, standing too close.
“No,” I pushed him away. “I’m not in the mood to dance.”
“What’s wrong? I’m a total stranger, you can tell me.” what the hell, I told him about the debacle with the aggressive femme.
“So you’re mad at her for kissing the guy?”
“I’m not mad at her–it’s just–this was all in public! I have to deal with these women again after this!”
“So you’re worried about your reputation?”
“Yeah, and she wasn’t even my type!”
“What is your type? I think she’s cute,” he pointed into the crowded dance floor, where a blond, faux hawked butch was getting down. “Not the big Dyke! Her!”
“Oh,” I replied. “I was looking at the big Dyke.”
“So, what do you find attractive in a woman?” He asked me.
“I don’t know,” I responded, giving it some thought. “I guess I’m attracted to her energy.”
“Oh wow.” He responded,”I could learn a lot of technique with women from hanging around lesbians! Seriously, though, what kind of women do you like?
“I like butch women,” I said, eyeing a light-skinned stud across the room. “Bois, women who dress like men. Big Dykes.”
“Wow. That surprises me. You see anyone here you like?”
“That woman behind you, with the gold lettering on her shirt–I’ve been checking her out all evening.”
“You want me to get her to talk to you?”
“No,” I said, once again excavating the space between us. “I can be attracted to her and not want to do anything about it.” As cute as she was–she looked like trouble! And I had enough trouble for one night!
“Man!” he said, right before walking away. “I’ve been talking to more lesbians tonight than in my whole life–and you all are fucked up!”

Attack of the Aggressive Femme

Cleavage

I was dancing by myself in an alcove when she approached me. She had a smile on her face and trouble in her eyes as she rubbed her ample bosom against mine on the dance floor. We fell into step together. She turned around, pressing her juicy booty against me. I thrust my hips into her soft curves.

She turned around and clamped her thick thighs around mine, finding that sweet spot as we bounced up and down on the floor.

Tearing my gaze away from her massive gleaming cleavage to her eyes, her expression demanded a kiss.
No. I put my hand up to ward off her lips.
“But why?”
“I don’t know you.”
“So…?”
“You don’t just go around kissing people you don’t know.” I tried to explain, fighting the feeling.
“So let’s get to know each other” She guided me to the couch.
She was nothing that I usually look for: I like dark, reserved, butch women, and here she was, a young, aggressive white femme. But so hot! She wrapped her arm around me assertively. Our pale legs looked so sexy together in our short dark skirts and ballet flats. She hooked her ankle around me and leaned into me.
“So do you want to get to know me, then?” She asked seductively, eyes peering out from the curtain if her dark hair.
“Uhuh.” I answered breathlessly, enraptured by the energy between us.
“What do you want to know?” We exchanged names. “It’s my birthday today.” She said, snuggling closer and trying again to kiss me. “I just turned 21.”
“Wait–really? I might have to see some ID.”
She showed me an ID that could have been her–I guess. It was printed lengthwise like a book, rather than width-wise like a drivers license. It did, indeed say she was “Underage until July 2, 2011.”
Would I even know if it was fake? Did I even care as her hands roamed my body and her skin pressed eagerly against mine.
“Is there anything else you want to know?” She asked. But all I could think of was the delicious curve of her neck and shoulder. Of their own volition my lips traced that delicate white curve.
She raised her lips to mine and this time I succumbed, her mouth dominating mine as our bodies tried to merge orally.

Just then there was a flash.

“Wait, what was that?” I looked around, but she drew me back to her, kissing me fervently. Some guys were laughing at us. One of them came over with a camera. She draped herself around me.
“Wait.” I said, as calmly as I could. “I don’t want to be photographed.”
“But this is my best friend!” she protested. “it won’t go on Facebook–I promise!”
“Come on, it’s her birthday!” He chided as she pouted.
“Oh all right.” she draped herself over me as he snapped a pic.
“She tends to get her way.” Another of the guys remarked.
“I know, she’s a bully!” I replied, but I was smiling.
We returned to snogging, her hands taking more and more liberties. I pushed her fingers out if my black satin D-cup.
“Let’s go somewhere private”
“How about the bathroom?”
“Ewe! No! I do not fuck in the bathroom!” (Have you seen the bathroom at these clubs?) “How about my car?” I countered, batting her greedy paw away from the hem of my dress. “Let’s get something to drink, first, though, huh?”
She lead me by the hand to the bar. I started to protest–but shrugged: in for a penny and all that.
“I’m so horny. I want you so bad!” She enthused as the bartenders ignored us.
“I know.” I gulped.
“We are going to car after this, right?”
“Yeah. Ok.” I responded, losing all resistance. I crossed myself, hoping I wasn’t making a big mistake.
“Good!”

She had her ID on the table.

“Um, why does your ID say your name is Jessie when you told me it was Chloe?”
“Oh, my name is Jessie, but my friends call me Chloe.”
Just then her friend spied her ID.
“Jessie, I didn’t know you were 21 today!” He exclaimed.

Then he gave me a smarmy look, leaned forwards and kissed her. She returned the kiss enthusiastically.

I moved to the other end of the bar, commanding the bartenders attention.

“I really need a drink!”‘